This is My Design
by Nameless-Sufferer
Summary: Caged like an animal for the traits it's owner portrayed upon him. The last thing I would like to do is to give that man the satisfaction of giving those ideas. No, I won't stay here. I refuse to. I'm not going to be mislead again. Not after I perform this. (The image is not mine. Working on it.)


_So this was a little project of mine. Unlike most fandoms, I couldn't see myself making a chapter story for the fandom Hannibal. I love the series, adore Hannigram, and cried and screamed at the season finale, but I just couldn't see myself writing a chapter fic. Instead, I just made this horrible one shot that came out of the blue._

_its horrible and I made it on my phone, but I hope it's interesting. I know I had fun writing it. _

_I know there will be a few grammar and spelling Nazi's out there, but please don't just see the flaws. Enjoy the story. :)_

_Disclaimer: i do not own Hannibal. _

* * *

The aroma of decay and the familiar details of blood splatter is what greets me when I open my eyes. I look for the carmine I have adjusted my eyes to see, but frown after a few moments. Actually, I suppose it would be the uncharacteristic lacking amount of the spray of the crimson liquid rather than the abundance of it. Most of it, instead of adorning the walls, appear to be soaked into the cot the body was on.

The cot itself looks stained as if uncleaned for a long period of time. It holds the distinct scent of human waste and the metallic sensation that only blood could truly hold. I suppose that would be at the fault of the victim however.

Speaking of which, I blink as I try to zoom in on his face, hoping to maybe notice some minor details useful for my evaluation, but all that was I could see was the heavy blur that cameras get when smudged with finger prints. It was annoying and I kept rubbing my eyes until I came to the conclusion that perhaps it would be revealed later.

It was only the face. The rest of the body was clear of any flaws and viewable in perfect definition. Slashing at the wrists and arms, the chest, and lastly, the neck. He aimed for arteries and also a certain perplexity of artistic value as if impressing someone. That person, however, was not supposed to be me.

I try to look at the features of the face and once again, nothing. Nothing at all. No eyes nor the curvature of the jaw was revealed to my gaze starving with curiosity and burning to the brim with annoyance. I suppose I will have to make do, much to my personal distaste. If I return after my brief panoramic revelation, perhaps it will be fixed.

It had to be. This has never happened before. I am always able to view my victims for a second before having them blinked away to useless. This is different and I didn't like it at all. In fact, I wish it would go away, but sadly it seems that's not going to happen.

Sighing, I turn away from the corpse and observe the rest of my surroundings. My mind was still buzzing with the information I had recorded, or more so the scarcity of it. The only thing left to observe was the cell in its entirety considering this individual was confined.

I was expecting perhaps some blood smearing from fingertips brushing its surface. It seemed logical enough.

The stony cell walls, however, were untainted. They still held the dull greys and even more achromatic shadows that truly derive it from being anything more than boring and unimaginative.

Feeling along the contours, I can feel the faint traces of dirt and decaying matter stuck to the cell falling in clumped flakes. I didn't cringe from the sights of the clearly unkempt cell. Instead, I rubbed the substances between my fingers, effectively reducing it to dust before rubbing my hand alongside my jeans.

Everything in this crime scene exclaimed filth and a obvious derivative of haste and efficiency. The victim wanted to hurry with the chance he had. He knew that the cameras were not trained on him for the moment and took advantage of the fact.

I look at the cameras and feel a small grin flow through my lips. How interesting. It seems the cameras were trained on him, but he seemed to have attempted to cover them. In fact, it seems they are still on considering the red light blinking constantly.

Whoever this victim was, he didn't want to be seen when committing his... design.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes once more, done observing the scene. When I opened them, I'm in the victims body. I am him and he is me.

I look at my hands and clench them, angered with betrayal and annoyed with disbelief. I wasn't meant for this cell. I wasn't supposed to be here. Somebody else should be here.

In fact, he still visits me.

_'How... intriguing'_ I think silently.

Unclenching the fisted hands, I lay them out, palms down at my sides. My index fingers begin to tap inconsistently to a rhythm I do not comprehend. I don't know why they are doing this. Perhaps because this confinement appears to abhor anything if interest... or perhaps my body is growing restless with increasing anticipation.

Only a few more minutes I gather although the graying walls and bland flooring is not helping in the passing of those small seconds.

This cell is too boring. There is nothing to do, nothing for me to occupy myself with doing. I was forever glued to the boredom of imprisonment. My house was much the same, but at least I had my dogs, the only companions to not have betrayed me. They kept me from resorting to my own methods of entertainment.

Where I'm at now, that's practically impossible.

...Well, maybe not entirely.

I suppose I could flee to my mind, but even my mind has barriers. Besides, nightmares are a terrible hindrance when you want to accomplish something. Sleeping is out of the question since I have done nothing but that ever since I was admitted. I've done so much of it that doing more of it just seems useless.

Restless is what I have become, or at least more active. I can't close my eyes for a moment before I have to be on my feet, striding for some sort of topic to breach. It's annoying, but I was never one to fully relax, as many psychiatrists and psychologists alike may agree.

My fingers come to a halt as a familiar step comes to my cell. Ah, so it's already time for dinner? Last I checked it was still half past noon and now the hour hand drifts toward the five marker. Was I sitting here through all those hours? Was I a statue during the seasonal check ups through out the day or did I do something I will not doubt never remember? Losing time is still a problem for me, but I will admit it has dwindled considerably.

I sigh and open my eyes a little, allowing the barely lit room to make itself known. Once more, though out of mere curiosity now, I briefly wonder how long I have been sitting here, staring at nothing before going to the tray.

The man is gone by the time I reach the doors and I can feel the small amount of annoyance mask my normally calm exterior. The assistants were always afraid to come near me. They feared I was going to go after them next. What do they expect of a man in a cage? For me to bite their faces off?

I wasn't an animal. My mind is still my own, despite the trickery that has been done. I'm not rabid and animalistic. Alana doesn't look like a piece of meat. Jack isn't some tempting meal. Hannibal-

... Nevermind. The point is, I wouldn't be so reduced to those tensions. I wouldn't do that. Never. I didn't even perform those acts in the first place. Unjustified accusations.

But nobody would believe a criminal painted in white clothing. The sheep dubbed the wolf. The crow that isn't as dank as it may seem. They won't believe me. Instead they would rather merge my past with the present so they seem to be the same side of a different puzzle.

I could bicker and plead. I could deny my crimes, but what point would that do? I'm not a regular criminal or I would be in prison. I'm "special". I'm mentally unstable which apparently drove the monster in me to rip through my humanity like blood in a bullet wound.

So, my best option would be to remain here. To stay quiet. To try and work my way out with my head. Of course, it's hard to do that when guilt links itself through everything.

My hands pick at the superficial food on the platter with no interest in bringing it to my mouth.

As always, the food is bland and tasteless. At least it is edible. I grab the tray and balance it in one hand and take my silverware in the other: a fork and knife.

Walking gingerly back to my cot, I place the tray on my lap. Meat. Vegetables. Water. The normal assets of a prisoners dinner. It's not as if I eat them anyways. I'm never hungry and the visions I see in this meal is even more unappetizing than the food actually on it. I can never stomach the sustenance on its surface.

All I see are flashes of fingers and an ear ripped from its source.

Silently, I berate the victim for his imagination for whatever crime he portrayed. Probably cannibalism, though considering his actions before, it's clear he isn't the cannibal otherwise he could slice through his visions without a doubt. Obviously, the one who put him here was the cannibal, the criminal.

Placing the tray on the ground, I take a hold the napkins they decided to spare me. I also take the knife. Wait. Interested, I peer closer at the instrument.

Hm... apparently they were being careless today. The knife wasn't the annoying butter knife they usually spare, no, this was the type of knife you use for meat. For cutting it for the simplicity of eating it. How could they give me such a tool? It's almost like they were aiding my plan.

Ah... right.

A grim expression covers my face as I place the napkin in my glass of water, soaking it through. I do the same to the other few napkins before laying them flat on my hand. I can feel them already sticking to my dry skin and stride over to the cameras.

Their blinking red at the moment. He's watching.

Using a napkin, I gently drape it over the camera and do the same with the others. I make sure that every hole is effectively covered so not a sliver of sight would be given. Or, at least, if there is, it would be blurred beyond distortion.

It was effectively done in a minute.

Though his screams of disdain would come sooner.

I step back. Tilting my head towards the front of my cell, I await the rush of footsteps that would inevitably come from my actions. I've done this several times so far, to make the doctor seem as if I was making it hard for him. It was actually the opposite. I did it so many times to enhance the "kid who cried wolf". So he wouldn't come as quick as if it was done out of the blue.

This helps my act right now.

As expected, none came. The man watching the cameras like a hound must be taking his nap. Smiling wryly, I couldn't help but imagine the look on his face once I'm finished with my design. It would be amusing in a... knowing sense.

Actually, I couldn't wait to imagine the looks on every bodies face to be honest. Not in glee either. No, it was more so the setting horror that they had done wrong and now they were going to have to face the consequences seeing as they avoided my help. Besides, with the assurance of that woman from before, I was no doubt going to be found guilty in tomorrow's trial.

Might as well rush the extermination so I could die with my pride. What's left of it anyways.

The steps back to my cot become heavier as the weight of my impending death begins to settle in. I have had it planned out for days. The carefully executed steps to ensure my deceased state. The erasing of the line marking reality and imagination. The creation of my design.

Sitting on the cot, I observe the knife. It's not nearly as sharp as it needs to be. With flicked movements, I quickly dash the sharp edge of the knife against the stone walls a few times before feeling its edge again, satisfied when it drew blood from my fingertips.

In the back of the victims mind, I take not of his state of mind in all of this. He's calm, not at all frenzied and unstable. It appears this individual doesn't have many peaceful days in his mind, but the few he does he takes advantage of them. He wants to make his suicide as carefree as one could get with the unjustified sentence over his head like a tombstone.

The victim... I lay down on my cot and stare up at the boring ceiling above. There is no clouds, no sun, no moon or stars. Just the dull stone ceiling.

I miss my dogs and the view I held when I lived at my home. I hope they are being well taken care of. They mean the most to me since everyone seems to have betrayed or mistrusts me. Hopefully Alana is keeping her promise. I'm not going to know after I do this after all so hope is all I have.

I play with the knife for a moment, wondering briefly what the best way to do this would be. Just deep slashes on the arteries of the wrist or a more... artistic quality to my effective suicide. I've seen so many types of assassinations that it could go either way with my imagination. Too many possibilities, not enough lives.

I don't have long to mull this over though. I'm limited. Time constraints.

Perhaps artistic I think to myself. The man who put me here always did like to make his victims into a showcase. What better than to leave like such? I won't be his final victim, but I will be his most memorable.

I laugh bitterly as I remember his words. He always said he was trying to help me, but I doubt helping me included taking the blame and mental instability. Perhaps at first his appointments were reasonable, aiding in the resolve of my daily stress and implacable nerves, but that changed quickly to manipulation. He never wanted to help me. Instead, he made me his pet.

To him, I was a dog. A dog he taught a few tricks only to set on the world to see what would happen. A creature to make his life a little less boring. He could hardly care for a pet so replaceable. He was practically lying between his teeth with all the comforts he placed and the praise he flaunted.

A liar is what he is. A liar is what he always will be.

Sighing angrily, I take a deep breath and let it out, my stress and anger flowing with it.

No. I have to think lucidly. Not with fury. That would only make this sloppy. It was already going to be painful, I don't need to add to that factor.

Using the knife at a near 45 degree angle, I press the tip of the knife into the skin just below the palms of my hand and at the top of the wrist. The pain was that similar to a pin prick. It was nothing. Besides, it was only going to get worse so this small amount should be treasured considering the rest will be especially excruciating.

I take a deep breath. Sliding the knife down my arm, I make swirls. Delicate swirls that, if not resulting in my death, could be counted as beauty. I wince at the constantly growing malady, biting my bottom lip to hide any gasps to alert the sleeping man on the other side of the camera.

_'Not enough'_ my mind whispers sadistically. I didn't bother pushing it back and allowed it to take reign of my movements.

I make several swirls and curves across my arm. After perhaps 5 seconds of this, I stop, breathing hard. Every breath made my pulses course through my body. As expected, the pain was horrible, but not unbearable.

_'Don't stop,'_ the voice whispers and I nod as if it was an actual person. I can't stop. No. He will not get another chance to view me with those hopeless eyes of his. I refuse to be gazed upon as a lost cause. A lost cause that he formed with his own two hands.

Gripping the knife with no difficulty, I continue the markings until they are just below the shoulders. By this point, the blood flow is constantly rolling down like waves across my arm, soaking into the cot below me. With a thump, it falls as well, weak and pulsing with the blood trying to sustain it.

The color is already draining from the skin.

I only let it rest for a second before taking the knife from my other hand and doing the same curvatures and markings in the opposite arm. They are slightly sloppier than my other arm since my hand was struggling to hold the tool. It was slow and the pain kept mounting. It kept piling and piling until I knew nothing but pain.

_'More,'_ it chanted in the back of my head.

The alarms start to blare loudly and over the intercom I hear my name being called. The doctor which watches over me so attentively. He's just a greedy man fishing for a story for more money, though now he will never receive the true version. It's far too late now. As always.

He will, however, get a cover for his mental novel.

But I wasn't finished. Not at all. I still had plenty to inflict on my malnourished skin. This design wasn't done yet. My standards has not been met in the slightest.

With hasty slashes, I cut my clothing to reveal my stomach, the ribs poking out from lack of nutrition. It was sickening, but I wouldn't have to view it with distaste ever again. After my little act of defiance, I'll be doing everything else but sighting the contoured ribs with disgust and sadness.

Closing my eyes, I let my hand guide the blade. No thought went into the path it made. I suppose this is what you call instinct.

Or desperation.

Whichever is the right phrase I don't necessarily care.

The knife was my paint brush and the crimson that blossomed was the paint. Poetic if not for the act it accompanied.

Two long markings, curving at the upper abdomen to my shoulders. Light markers at various pinpoints of the way.

_Antlers._

Around my stomach, I make an attempt for a triangle shape as well as two ovals.

_Eyes and a nose._

The stomping of the hospital personnel are beginning to come closer as I finished my art. I could hear their yelling and screeching and knew I had little time before they would attempt to salvage me.

Yet no panic rose from my hazy conscience.

With quick slashes in vague, corresponding directions, I attempt to make everything come together.

_Fur._

At this point, I leave the victim's point of view, the adrenaline running like rushing water. I feel my heart race. This man. His suicide was nothing like I have seen and yet I could not tell apart his face with the blurred pixels. Squinting my eyes, I try to view his face again, but this time it acted without difficulty and everything came into view.

The face previously hidden from my view is now clear and I feel my insides clench before relaxing into acceptance. This all makes sense. This man. This man that is attempting his suicide. I know this man.

I know him like the back of my hand.

Because this man. He is me.

Of course, who else could it have been?

I sigh sadly before continuing the event. Dread fills my heart and I mourn the life that I gave away so little ago. Not for the love I lack or for the betrayal I experienced. No, for the important people I left. But it was too late.

Always too late.

Already knowing what was bound to happen, I just view the final moments with no commentary.

Letting my arms drop for a moment, I barely see the personnel struggle to get the door open before I use the knife one last time to slash my throat.

Like Abigail.

After that, my vision fades to black.

I feel the constant beads and dribbles of crimson fall across my body and I know I am dying. It's obvious and anybody could see it. I know I won't see another living soul. I know that my eyes will close one last time.

And will never open again like the countless victims I view over.

The men are shouting, panicked. They don't know what to do. My bleeding body is too much for them to fix with simple gauze. No surgery will save my life in time. They know I'm going to pass away. They try to clean the mess and it only aids in more flowing out in the process.

_'It's useless trying,'_ I muse to myself.

A faint smile appears on my face.

It's funny really. I have long seen countless murders, pieces of art and mutilation. I have seen the blood drained from bodies and the organs ripped out of others. I shot people. I killed people. I permanently stained red on my hands. I saved a girl, briefly. I did a lot of things, but those are not my designs. They never were.

Opening my eyes, I don't see anything but I can feel my final breath coming to my lips.

No, those were not my designs.

This.

_This is my design._

* * *

_this was just a little toy. Nothing more. I'm sorry to waste your time and will try to make something a little more worth reading. ^^"_

_Review, favorite, or just read it and be surprised. I'm fine with any._

_Ciao~_


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